Become a Fan

28 December 2010

In High School it became apparent to me I would not score as high as my friends on the SAT. Because I didn't have money. The test didn't cost any money. But the tutoring did. And the more money you {your parents, that is} paid, the higher your score.

You still had to pay for college, but that initial number increased your chances to get into the school of your choice. Or the choicest school.

I do poorly on tests like the SAT. It turned out I got into all the colleges I applied for. But not because I did well on the SAT. Because I was being judged as much on my skills as I was for my grades. No, maybe more. I applied with a portfolio. I applied with a craft, for a craft.

And crafts need to be practiced, for years, in order to gain proficiency.

Natural born talent helps, but even brilliance needs to be polished, honed, trained, exercised.

I think of culinary school the way I think of a vacation at Club Med. Never gonna happen for me. I've never had the money to live, even temporarily, in a walled environment. Must be nice. For those folks. Sounds abominable. Privilege breeds privilege. Wish I could relax like that for a spell. O I would take such advantage of such an opportunity!

It's confusing.

It's confusing that there's school for a craft. A craft learned over a lifetime. Everyone has to start somewhere, I reckon, but why does it cost so much money? What are those culinary students learning that I haven't/can't learn, just by working in kitchens and practicing this craft, every day?

And where, on the continuum of cooking, learning to cook, do those culinary students get propelled to, when they graduate? How many years did they "miss" by going to school?

Did culinary school give them a clear understanding of the demands this industry expects? To show up every day. Never call in sick. Never have a weekend off. Never be able to sit down on a 16 hour shift? Work injured, work hurt, work sick, work without days off. Work every night. Every weekend. Work all the time.

Did culinary school ever tell them that a craft is a verb, not a noun?

Did culinary school ever tell them that "Yes, Chef" is all the answer our superiors should hear when they've made a correction on our work, on our attitude, on our appearance, on our plates, on our work ethic?

"You're not doing these kids a favor by coddling them. You're crippling them."

I know you think I hate culinary schools. Perhaps you think that deep within me I wish I had been able to go-- to have been able to afford to go. You'd be right on all accounts.

I don't hate culinary school or graduates of culinary students as a rule.

I despise the privilege. I despise the cooks waiting for a formal invitation to learn, to grow, to challenge themselves, to do for their fellow cooks and chefs something outside their own eyesight.

I detest the attitude shift. Wave after wave of culinary students graduate every few weeks in America and where are they? Why aren't they applying for restaurants with whole animal programs? Why can't they last more than a few weeks in a bakery? How come they don't know basic information about seasonal produce, or better yet: how not to waste food?!

I think culinary schools are somehow teaching their students that all they have to do to get an education is to pay for it. And that once they start getting paid themselves, education will just arrive on a conveyor belt and they won't have to work for it or stoop down to pick it up or wait patiently or do thousands of hours of repetitive tasks. They think that with that school certificate they will be the foreman before being the apprentice.

I've seen cooks fired for shrugging their shoulders and blaming their commis, their prep staff, even their sous chefs, for their fucked up mis en place. When did personal responsibility become a thing of the past? If it's "always someone else's fault," when will you challenge yourself to become better, cleaner, faster?

In New York City most line cooks walk into a line that is fully prepped for them. They do not butcher their own protein, they do not peel their own fava beans, they do not wash their own stoves, they do not wash their own tools, they show up at their call time and punch out and drink a staff drink and

if they think that the chefs and sous chefs and prep cooks

who do all that prep for them, every day, who know

how to butcher, how to make charcuterie, how to bake bread, how to cure a ham or make marmalade or roll out a really tender pate brisee, how to prep their own fucking station-- from start to finish,

are going are to

invite

them to learn,

they are in for a big surprise. Because no fucking invitation will be written for them.

And the craft will be diluted

by those who think the fast track is a school an education few people can afford.

It was great fun, don't get me wrong, once the lights were on and my sharp, beautiful, smart, funny, adept gracious director, Kelly Choi, was telling me what to do and getting me to talk about food and spices and why gingerbread and ginger cake should be spicy, not flat, all was well in the world. We even really baked one together! And really ate it! Not just on TV.

And not just any TV, but on the little televisions now in every New York City yellow cab. On Thanksgiving.

If you watch it yourselfyou'll also get to have a peek into Pastrylandia! It's my pet name for my not-so-diminuitive pastry/bakery station/production area below sea level on Joey Ramone place and 2nd street, on the Bowery: home of Peels, my new home.

05 December 2010

For a few years now I've had an idea. I've thought about how terrible it is for the dead to miss their own obituaries. I've often wondered if a person's quality of life might be bettered if she/he knew how appreciated they were. I've had the idea to memorialize the living, not merely the deceased.

I've seen newspaper writers vie to be the ones who set down those words describing those lives as past tense. And I've witnessed thin, hungry and absent obituaries. Unattended memorials. Wordless friends, affection starved grief.

I've read final books, written in someone's last years, and memoirs written in what we call someone's mid-life. We're really lucky if people we love and admire set down words, create art and leave us with something to hear them by, after they die. But it doesn't mean we should wait until they're gone to celebrate them, and what they mean to us, while they are still alive and meandering, imperfectly along, weaving in, like knitted yarn, through their lives and ours.

It can really embarass someone to tell them how much you appreciate their presence in your life. I have friends and colleagues for whom these words would make their skin crawl with disgust. I work for and with and have working for me, people for whom words like this would make them run screaming.

The person who thinks they are the best is the same narcissist who thinks they are the worst.

Some of us are very hard on ourselves. And positive or negative words from those we admire feel the same: like a lie.

I used to work with someone who would have never let you finish a sentence of sappyness. Macho. Or macha, as sex-specific romance language goes. Compliments and criticisms went to the same place with her: on the floor. She wasn't having any of it. Just get the work done. And have a drink after work. Or six. But then one morning, on a day everyone in my generation will remember, she died. Destroyed, evaporated, murdered. Few words left behind. To write any felt impossibly difficult and necessary both.

The difficult and the necessary.

What eggbeater is about. As you know, I sometimes say what no one wants to hear. I sometimes speak for those who can not. I hope to speak from the heart of my industry. {all is fair in love & war} I write words free of sponsored agenda. I work inside real kitchens with real people and real issues, personal and political, domestic and international, human and historical.

I want my idea to become real. I'm going to start writing Living Memorials.

Some of them might be formal, some of them all-inclusive, some of people you have already heard of, some I'm sure don't even know who I am, some of people I've known my whole life.

They will be about people whose lives I find wondrous, complicated, inspiring, joyful, radical, humble, tough, sharp, mysterious, generous, sexy, intense, quixotic, adventurous, frightening, enviable, quiet, colorful and more or less, depending on how you see and experience them yourself.

And I would like you to join me.

If you take up space online, please consider this an open invitation to write a Living Meme too.

There are no rules, none that I'm going to make, at any rate. I just want to see more celebratory words set down about people who are alive and actively living, doing, being. Foibles and all.